Hugh J. O'Donnell

The helicopter landed in the middle of an overgrown courtyard. The hostess turned and addressed the passengers. They were all men, armed to the teeth, and Americans. Typical. “You know the rules,” she said. It was a familiar script, and they all knew it by heart. It was all part of the show. “Local time is 6:45AM, sunrise. You have until 7:50PM to find the coffin. Then it’s His turn. I’ll be back at midnight to pick up the survivor.” They exited, she mugged for the hidden cameras, and lifted off again.
“Gentlemen, may the best hunter win!”

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The popup bakery didn’t exactly make cupcakes. Instead, they made exquisite, miniature versions of larger baked goods.
Their Victoria sponge cakes were dusted with an almost imperceptible layer of the finest powdered sugar customers had ever seen. Their carrot cakes were topped with impossibly small whole carrots. Their black forest gateaus were covered in tiny cherries.
The baker became famous for the delicacy of his work, and was constantly asked for his secret.
No one was allowed in the back of the kitchen, where teams of tiny chefs toiled night and day on the fabulous creations he took credit for.

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“I made a Fire Crystal!” The apprentice held up a faintly glowing orang-red stone.
“Why?” The wizard asked. This was not the response she was hoping for.
“Fire is useful. It gives warmth, light, and comfort.”
“And it also causes pain, injury and ruin, my young apprentice.”
“Should I not have?”
“Remember that artifacts are not the same as spells. They exist separate from your will, and can be used outside your control. You made a tool, but in another person’s hands, that is a weapon.” He pushed up the sleeve of his robe to show her his scars.

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The house sat in the middle of a serene lake in the veldt. In the first light of sunrise, he sat on the porch sipping coffee, looking out at the unspoiled wilderness.
Mist drifted above the water, forming ghostly shapes in the air. Jewel-toned birds pinwheeled through the air, and on the far shore, a tiger paced restlessly.
The door behind him slid open, and one of the other guests sat down beside him.
“You’re right,” she said. “This is beautiful. But I still think we should find someplace a little less remote for the writers’ retreat next year.”

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“What the hell are you wearing?” Mickey asked. It was an old argument, and one Lorenzo had been expecting.
“A suit, Mickey.”
“With a white shirt. I told you, black jacket, purple shirt. You look like a banker.”
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow as he took in the rest of the crew. They’d all followed the dress code.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to have a uniform for a heist.”
“You don’t get it, mate. It’s not just pulling the job. We’ve got to have style.”
When the rest of them all got pinched. Lorenzo bailed them out, again.

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